Superman

Your action figure body
could break glass. You took
all the wrong things

from comic books: titanium
abs, an ass like two polished
asteroids. The impossible way

your back ripples
against itself. Plastic
-haired boy, teach me

compensation, how
to winnow myself into
a pearl. Teach me

about your jaw and
the smooth sockets
of your groin. When

you raise your arms above
your head, your hipbone slips
into the world. What comes next

seems obvious: we tilt
our bodies forward
and take flight.

Sea Urchin

Today I feel like I’m swimming
in blood. The world, after all, is usually

colder than the body. Maybe this is why
I love the winter thaw, the pear trees’

cum-smell, the air like a handful
of stomach muscle. The only edible part

of the sea urchin is its underbelly,
you know. Let me tell you: the next boy I see

with his arms above his head
won’t have time to count my teeth.

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Patrick Kindig is a dual MFA/PhD candidate at Indiana University, where he writes poems and studies 20th century American literature. His micro-chapbook, Dry Spell, is forthcoming from Porkbelly Press in late 2015, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in the minnesota review, Fugue, BLOOM, Court Green, and elsewhere.